Why did she ask? She’s suspicious, obviously. If I could sit calmly with her and explain exactly how it all happened, she might even understand. But I know explaining would be impossible. I should never have put myself in that position with Uma. I should have expected what might happen.
So, because I can promise, on my life, that nothing like it will ever happen again, what’s the point in upsetting Imogen with something I can’t change?
It’s irrelevant. Certainly irrelevant to how I feel about her; and to our future. Uma is no match for Imogen. She’s sexy, sure. Very sexy. But so are plenty of other women, but none come close to Imogen’s loving kindness. I can’t risk losing her. Uma won’t catch me again.
In my mind, I’m exonerated by extenuating circumstances, but I’m still annoyed. Not only has Uma risked my marriage, but now she’s interfered in my warning Imogen of my precognition; because, that’s what I’m certain it is.
I have to stop it. I must make her understand the peril she’s in. The ghastly direction my nightmares have taken is surely an increased urgency to the warning. I don’t understand these things, who does? But you read about it all the time.
I don’t know how much time I’ve got, but surely they can’t become much grislier.
I’m consoled remembering that in my precognition, the accident happens at night. Plucking the phone from its receiver, I dial Imogen’s surgery. I’ll need to phone Radcliffe to call in sick, but this is more important.
“Good morning,” I ask politely, alarmed by the rasp of my voice. “Could I speak to my wife, Dr Armstrong, please?” A long pause follows, and I’m sure I detect some mouthed discussion before the clipped tone of the receptionist answers.
“I’m afraid she’s unavailable at the moment. Is there any message?” I can’t fault her professionalism, but I don’t fail to detect her dislike through the phone.
“Er, yes. I was hoping to meet up with her for lunch. Do you think you could pass that on?” There’s a stifled chuckle from the other end.
“Lunch? Is that tomorrow?” Frowning, I push home the point, annoyed at the impertinence.
“No. Today! I want to meet my wife for lunch today.”
“That’s going to be difficult, I’m afraid. She’s not taking a late lunch. She left at her usual time and is now busy in afternoon surgery.” I’m sure she’s giggling.
My mistake clear now, I mutter a thank you and put the phone down, missing the cradle the first time in my angst. Afternoon surgery? I glance at the wall clock. Half-past two. Shit! And I haven’t phoned school yet.
My fingers are already pressing the buttons as I scoop the phone up once more. “Ah, Alix. I’m so sorry.”
“How, are you feeling? Any better?” Confused, I blabber on with my excuses. “Eliot, don’t worry. Your wife, Imogen, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“She explained first thing this morning how you’d picked up an awful bug.”
Thank you, Imogen. Even when you’re mad with me, you look after me. “Did she? Oh she’s a star.”
“Yes. You want to look after that one.”
What’s that supposed to mean? I wonder, but chuckle knowingly instead. “I’ll be in tomorrow. You can count on it.”
“Er, no. Sorry, Eliot. School policy. You need to stay off for at least forty-eight hours after symptoms have cleared up with a bout of Gastroenteritis.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. Sorry. If it clears up by tomorrow, I’ll see you Friday.”
“At the earliest,” Alix reiterates. “Take care. And get well soon.”
Relief that I won’t have to deal with Uma is tempered by disgust that it’s come to this. My drunken debauchery has led me to miss work. “Eliot. You’re a mess,” I berate. But it’s good. I can go to Imogen’s work and persuade her, face to face, not to drive.
After showering, I’m a bit more human. I force in a greasy bacon sandwich to see off the last of my hangover and check the time. Four o’clock. Imogen finishes at half-five. I’ll leave soon and wait in the car-park to be sure not to miss her. I remember in time that, once again, I’ll need to walk to collect my car. It’ll do me good. The sun on my back, the breeze in my hair.
By the time I’m sat behind the wheel, I’ve convinced myself that missing work is the best thing that could’ve happened. Allowing myself some down time, drumming along to Oasis, blaring from the fourteen high-performance speakers, I pull into the surgery and am at once dismayed. Imogen’s car isn’t there.
I call her phone. Straight to voicemail. Floundering, I press end without leaving a message. With no other option, I march into the surgery. Slowing before the desk, I pause and remember to smile.
“Hi,” I begin. “Is Imogen, I mean Dr Armstrong, expected back? Her car’s not outside.”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
“But you said she was busy in surgery!”
“She left for an urgent house-call and didn’t come back.”
Alarm bells resonate in my head. “Didn’t come back? You mean you were expecting her, and she’s not returned?” Unsure if her pensive expression is due to believing me a stranger, I clarify my relationship.
“I know who you are. And, no. I wouldn’t say we were expecting her. She generally comes back, but it’s not a requirement.” Detecting a frostiness to her tone, I can’t understand it, and don’t have time to wonder. Doctors’ receptionists aren’t known for their sunny disposition.
I must have missed her. Typical. I drive home, anxious, but confident my fears will be allayed. Rush hour isn’t much of an event in Ware, but it does delay me and chips away at my coolness.
Drumming impatient fingers on the dashboard, I have no choice but to follow the line of traffic. Shuffling in my seat, the stern façade of the double arched Town Hall (long since a branch of local estate agents) matches my mood.
Missing Imogen and Jess in a drunken stupor this morning, missing her again at the surgery; it seems like a bad omen. “Come ON!” I yell, running out of patience.
An elderly man in an equally elderly Ford Anglia fails to attract my usual admiration for classic lines as I zoom past in the barely sufficient gap. Speeding round the bends, shaped by shadowing the River Lee as it snakes its way across The Meads, my heart leaps to my mouth as I swerve, the steering wheel whirling in my hands.
A tractor, whose machinery attachment extends perilously beyond its breadth, is straddling both lanes as it swings round a sharp bend in the road. Bracing myself for the inevitable collision, I can hear the grating metal before it happens.
My mind races to imagining shouting at the tractor driver. “What have you done to my beautiful Mercedes, you moron?!”
As the spikes of the machine surge towards my face, it seems they must have been constructed more for maiming than for any agricultural purpose.
Everything is happening in slow-motion. I can almost see the spirit from my nightmares swooping down upon me.
Of course! This is it. Not how it appeared in the precognition; not dark, and not Imogen’s Mini. But I’m convinced, this is it.
At the moment I’m positive death is certain, the tractor passes and nothing happens. Quickly, I‘m forced to regain my composure and steer away from the centre of the road.
My twitching alerted the car’s many sensors and safety mechanisms which automatically adjusted my braking, steering and chassis to keep me alive. I should stop; take a breather. But instead, with a rush of adrenaline, I laugh.
Indicating too late, I screech around the bend into Scott’s Road and begin the steep assent.
“Please be home. Please be home,” I repeat, frantic to see Imogen safe and sound. The short drive to Warner Road at the top of the hill has given my stress fuelled mind ample time to think, and to worry.
So, that wasn’t it. My gratitude gives way quickly to unease. As I reach the T-Junction and turn left, it’s too early to tell, but I’m already sure Imogen won’t be there.
Slowing to crawling speed to delay confirmation
, I allow my eyes to fall over Chadwell Springs golf course, desperate to wring any distraction from my circumstance.
The compelling sight of immaculate green grass, falling away to stark white chalk cliffs (formed by bygone quarrying) was one of the main reasons we chose this house. There are imminent plans to fill the vast chasm with water to form a lake, but for now, the view is a sharp plummet into a chalky gorge.
The momentum of the rolling wheels can be put off no longer. The gap in the driveway where Imogen’s Mini usually resides gapes like a gorge I fear I’ll fall into. I smack the centre of the steering wheel, sounding the horn by mistake.
Jumping at the sudden noise, I shriek in dismay. “Where the fuck are you?”
Chapter Ten
I rush inside to see if there are signs of her having been home. “Jess?” I call. “Jess, are you here?” I don’t know what time she’s been getting home from college lately, having been drinking myself stupid in several of Ware’s licenced establishments. Her friend, Amy, who’s seventeen and driving already, has been her source of transport for some time.
There’s no answer. Everything looks as I remember it. Peering around for clues, I realise I don’t know what I’m looking for.
Satisfied I’ve done enough, I phone again. When it goes straight to voicemail, I immediately redial. Not until I’ve phoned three more times do I give up.
Jess. She’s always got her phone on and within reach (about ten inches from her face!) But not today.
My mind racks, frantically rifling for possibilities. Okay. As Jess isn’t home either, they’re probably together, I reassure myself. But visions from my nightmares assail me. Forcing them back, I gulp down my fears, too unbearable to consider.
With a deep breath, I force logic into my head. They’ll be shopping, or in a spa, or at the dentist, I don’t know. They doubtless told me, but I was too shit-faced to understand. Turning on the TV for company, I return to the kitchen. I need to eat, but I can’t face anything.
Despite my non-existent appetite, I decide to distract myself by constructing an elaborate sandwich from salad and cold meats lining the fridge. I top it off with a splurge of hastily produced mustard-mayonnaise.
It looks fantastic, but after one bite, my mouth is so dry I can’t swallow. Selecting a suitable Tupperware container from Imogen’s comprehensive selection, I refrigerate it for later consumption and then phone her again.
Imogen’s number goes straight to answerphone. I press end, and immediately phone Jess. Voicemail again. What’s the time? Eight o’clock. Either I’m failing to recall vital information they’ve told me about their whereabouts, or they’re missing.
Noticing how sweaty my clammy fingers have made my phone screen, I replace it to my pocket. Biting my lip until it hurts, I wince and force my hand to my side from its twiddling of my wedding ring round and round. Moments later I’m chewing painfully at a quick, so I coerce my fingers back again.
“Come on,” I coach myself. “This is getting you nowhere.” Grabbing my keys from their hook, I decide on one more look for clues. Scanning the phone message pad, then my writing desk (hoping there’s a note. There isn’t.) I even run upstairs to see what clothes are missing. I have no idea and wonder what I was hoping to achieve.
“You’re wasting time. Think!” I call all the local spa hotels, but there’s no record of them booking into any of them. Assuming they’re okay, they must be planning to eat out. It’s already past our usual meal time, so I phone through a list of what I believe are our favourite restaurants to similar fruitless avail.
Gratification at being busy can no longer suppress my mounting apprehension. I’ve got to get out there and find them.
Trawling through memories of my nightmares, I long for the spirit to take me to them because I have no idea where to find the country road from my memories. Hertfordshire is blessed with a great many. A clue where they might be is vital.
I resolve to drive to Jess’s school. If Imogen picked her up, they must have started from there.
My eyes scrutinise every car, as though I might fail to immediately recognise Imogen’s Mini. When I arrive at the school gates, I’m grateful for my diligence, certain that she wasn’t there, rather than that I missed her.
Where might they head from here? Knowing they’re not on the road from school to home makes me head in the opposite direction. Bars and cafes vie for my attention, but I don’t see the car.
Realising I’m headed towards our family dentist, I tut, regretting not having phoned them. If Imogen had been there, I could have saved a lot of heartache. But, as I pass, of course her car isn’t there. It’s nearly nine o’clock. I’m sure they close at six.
Drumming my fingers, I recap my theories. Imogen must have picked up Jess to go somewhere. The types of places they go might be a spa, or the dentist, or shopping; or where else? Hair! They open late, don’t they? And it always takes bloody ages whenever Imogen announces she’s off to the salon. But, which salon?
Tapping an extended index finger on my pursed lips, I frown into the middle-distance, desperate to recall a name. Failing to come up with anything, I decide it’s probably too late anyway. They’d be finished by now.
Why not stop for a bite to eat? Girls together with new posh hair. I drive round randomly in the hope I’ll spot the car. I take every country road that could conceivably be considered on their way home but notice nothing. But that’s good, isn’t it? The last thing I want to discover is the car crash from my nightmares.
After phoning a dozen more times, I give up. “They’ll be home now—probably worried about me!” I declare to the quiet in the car. Swinging round, back towards home, I’m torn between a desire for everything to be okay, and my fear that it will be confirmation they’re definitely not.
Drawing closer to the house, the growing dread within my chest constricts my lungs and I’m having trouble breathing. I shake my head against the dizziness and consciously control my breathing.
The steering wheel shakes in my trembling grip as I steer into Scott’s Road and roar up the hill, spraying shingle from the surface. “Be home. Please, be home,” I repeat, cringing as I realise pointless mantras are becoming my norm.
Just like earlier, I’m sure before I even see our driveway that Imogen’s car won’t be there. But when my suspicion is confirmed, it’s a crushing blow.
I screech to a halt, stomping the brake in frustration. Plunging my hand into my pocket to retrieve my phone, I dial 999 but pause before pressing send. Am I being hasty? Would I be so panicked if it wasn’t for my nightmares? I don’t care. I’d rather risk ridicule than risk not finding my girls.
“It’s too early to report your wife as a missing person, but as your daughter is still technically a minor, I will send someone out to you. You should really have called 101, not 999; that’s for emergencies, and whilst I understand your concerns, this hasn’t escalated to that just yet.” Despite what she’s saying, her tone is friendly, and I feel reassured by her non-urgency.
Despite that, a police car pulls up within five minutes. After ushering a capable looking pair into our large lounge, the male begins to question me whilst the pretty WPC stands next to him, smiling compassionately as I blurt out about my nightmare precognitions.
“Imogen not coming home is totally unprecedented. And I know this’ll sound crazy, but I’ve been having these vivid dreams. Terrible nightmares where she dies in a car accident.”
Crazy as I do undoubtedly sound, the officers in my front room can’t be faulted in their professionalism. With a few “Hmm mm’s,” the male scribbles on a pad, while the lady smiles and reassures.
“We can check, but I’m sure there haven’t been any serious accidents in the locality tonight.”
Content I’m reassured, they begin a new line of enquiry. After probing into how happy our marriage is, or isn’t; and after sincere assertions from me that we’re blissfully content, the Police Constable gets to his point.
“Please don’t t
ake this the wrong way, Mr Armstrong, but is there any chance your wife may have left you and taken your daughter with her?” Seeing my wide-eyed wince, he moderates his suggestion. “Maybe just for a few days?”
The thought hadn’t seriously occurred to me, but I did check for missing clothes, so maybe I knew all along. The last thing she said to me was “Who’s Uma?” Certain now that is what’s happened, a new dread chills me.
“Er, I suppose that’s a possibility,” I admit, hanging my head.
The officers share a glance as though they can imagine exactly what her motivation might have been. I’ve just got the look of the philanderer.
“Perhaps you ought to start by phoning round some of her friends and family?”
There’s a long pause before I crank into action. “Now?”
“Well, yes, sir.” If you can find out while we’re still here.”
Who do I call? If she’s on her way to my bloody in-laws, she won’t be there yet. Thumbing through the contact book by the phone, I realise it hasn’t been updated in years (since we all got smartphones). Most of the numbers are either for mutual friends who have long-since moved, or businesses (many of which have disappeared, too.)
The panic in my face, obvious; our marriage must appear a lot less content; a lot less close than I had intimated moments before.
“Struggling to find anyone?” I nod, unable to speak with the embarrassment. “But are we saying them both having gone away for a little while without notifying you is the most likely explanation?” Again I nod.
“Well, okay. Get some rest. If you’re still concerned, please do contact us again. In the meantime, we’ll keep our ears to the ground and let you know if we hear anything.” Turning to leave, he adds. “Try not to worry. Nine times out of ten, these things work themselves out.” And I’m not sure if he’s referring to Imogen and Jess turning up safe, or alluding to problems in my marriage.
“Okay. Thank you, officers.” The woman places a caring hand on my folded arms and looks deep into my eyes.
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 66
